Brink
by Sayble
Summary: Veigar wasn't always a twisted soul. He was something else, pushed to the brink of insanity. "When your back is against the wall, the only thing left to do is fight, or die trying."
1. Chapter 1

**It was a dark day...**

**It was the day I forgot who I was.**

**I walk upon these fields of justice wielding remnants of my former self, my former aspirations...**

**All meaningless.**

**I should have died with them...**

**Hmm.**

**Maybe I have.**

**Maybe...**

**I'm just a ghost.**

* * *

"Stay strong, it won't be long now."

I nod eagerly, albeit weakly...

Oh, I feel so, so weak...

But this is it, our chance at freedom.

I cock my head 90 degrees to the left, surely they had to come soon, it's nearly time.

Through the forcefields we are kept in, I only have a limited view of the prison, yet I remember each and every square inch of this forsaken hellhole.

Countless trips to the torture chambers had given me more then enough time to drink in the horror of this place, the garish landscape of Noxian metal had long ago

burned themselves into my retinas.

My fur was all but blackened from the dark magic, and teal lines could be seen where the flesh had been branded, the Yordle fur scorched off in those damned

"searings": Runic experiments that had been practiced upon the inmates.

Not all of them survived this ordeal, but I stayed strong, fueled by nothing but a desire to live, to see another day, grim it may be.

Dark, darkness are all that we have. It's in the metal cages that we are kept in, the rusted rebar slowly wearing away at the black finish along with our sanity, a

shoddy Noxian paint used in tar and other basic mainstay.

It's in everything we endured, the daily beatings, the tortures, the screaming...

Oh, the screaming.

Even now, the thrashing and yelling can be heard from down the prison halls, a constant reminder that we are all one step away from the same fate.

To live in fear, this is what it truly means, existence reduced to nothing but a shell of one's former self.

To see the next meal, to live life by the second, by the moment.

A horrible existence.

The clangs of metal as hammer meets steel, the groans of that constantly rotating clockwork as it weaves the terrible magic binding us into our cells.

A huge, metal, copper cross that spans at least 12 meters in width, the design is a catalyst for the Noxian Necromancy that has been undergoing here and

can be seen placed dead center onto the prison ceiling, overlooking our cells, grinding and halting nonstop.

Damn Noxians, their pragmatics never gave way to the name of cruelty.

Bastards.

My stomach aches, a dull pounding that never ceases to go away.

They hadn't given us a proper meal in weeks, reduced to nothing more then scrambling beggars when the guards tossed us leftovers every once in a blue moon.

Like animals.

No...something far less.

The hunger, the pain, the mind searing, the runic imprints that have tattooed themselves across my now barren and scarred chest...

I look to my left, the only other inmate in the dark cell, save for the eerie green force field that hummed with demonic power.

He sits upon a wooden stool, more or less a makeshift piece of wood that he had propped up against the wall in order to avoid sitting on the filth we had been forced

to sleep in, the filth was moist enough to condensate unto the ceiling and drip it's contents down upon anyone unfortunate enough to pick a poor spot to sleep.

Rancid, they never clean us, nor these cells.

his hunched over outline in the darkness belies the strength of spirit in his heart, fingers were set to work upon a small piece of ivory.

A souvenir from Bandle City.

He looks up from his ministrations, a weak smile plays across his lips.

His bloodshot eyes do little to reassure me.

Grim is more like it.

This could be our last night together, alive.

Something he and I are both dully aware of.

The darkness obscures his Yordle features. Even for someone as small as he, the rugged fur that plays across his face gives rise to a grizzled appearance, blue stripes

run up and along the crook of his nose, like the mark of a liger.

Save for the heavy scar that cuts along his left eye towards the right side of his neck, he remains relatively unscathed, his golden mane turned a dirty gray from the

year we have spent under Noxian captivity.

It's been a year, yet the stifling walls of death and decay seem like eternity.

You lose track of time in here, if it weren't for Geralt carving tick marks into the prison walls, I'd have probably gone insane.

Then again, time is meaningless at this point.

Yet on the same coin...

It all boils down to a second, doesn't it?

A year ago, I set off as a bright eyed merchant to the far off lands of Terra.

I had spent so much time cooped up in Bandle city I obsessed over what lied beyond.

It was all I thought about. To go out **there.**

It was only a matter of time before I met Geralt and we planned a trading route that would take us everywhere.

First we would go to Ionia, then Demacia, and finally make our way to the freezing tundra of the Freljord.

A taxing journey, but that is what made the trip so exciting.

Unfortunately, we never made it that far.

We were set off our path by misinformation, our trade route was sabotaged, and we ended up in Noxus.

Yordles all heard the stories. In Bandle city, we were warned about this place, a cesspool of corruption, evil, and deceit. A place where darkness ruled, and

morality was just a word.

We were both set up, and were arrested for smuggling.

It was a scuffle over some jewels, we hadn't looked at our wares properly and realized that someone had used us to smuggle illegal items with magical properties into

the Du Cuteau estate.

We counted the days together, perhaps to oblivion, vowing that we would one day be free.

But that was over a year ago.

And we were very different people now.

Somewhere along the line of attempting to stay sane in these walls I had become jaded.

Gone were my aspirations, my lifelong dream of exploring this world, whatever lied beyond, I didn't care.

I was sick of it, I just wanted to survive.

Such a far off dream now, almost absurd.

Almost surreal...

"Veigar."

His voice snaps me out of my trance, I realize I had been staring.

I can see the concern etched unto his face, and quickly stand, despite my small stature not making much of a difference."

The effort blurs my vision.

"I'm fine." Yet anymore talk and I will have to lie down in the filth. My voice comes out as a raspy squeak.

His expression remains unchanging, clearly unconvinced.

"Rest, I'll keep watch now, you can sleep on the dry spot." His voice too is strained, but the searing had not damaged his vocal cords unlike my own.

A small price to pay for my life.

Abashed but too tired to avert my eyes, I simply nod and shuffle over to switch places.

Used to the rancid smell, I close my eyes and lie down upon the cold metal.

It won't be long, I need this rest, to be ready.

We both know vigor alone won't be enough to escape this place.

Not all of us will make it, we're starved, tortured halfway out of our minds, some of these inmates haven't seen a glimpse of sunlight in decades.

But it's better then rotting here, forgotten, alone.

Anything is better then that.

A furry hand grips my shoulder, I try to feel reassured, but doubt clouds my already fuzzy mind.

My breath fogs the force field barring our escape.

So close.

"You and me, Veigar. Today we get out of this hellhole."

I try to smile, yet my muscles fail to respond properly and a grimace is all I can manage.

"I sure hope so..." I rasp.

The searing had slowly taken it's toll upon my frail body, and speech comes out painfully, comically.

It wasn't funny. Then again, nothing was funny anymore anyway...

Moments pass before darkness overtakes me, perhaps I won't wake up this time...

* * *

The time of reckoning has come.

Rows upon rows of cells, lined with prisoners, awaiting their signal.

Grim, determined, desperate. We all have the same look in our dirt covered faces, the glint of hope in the blackest of night can be seen in each of our damned souls

this day.

I inwardly wish upon the divine favor of any and all gods that may or may not exist.

Damn my Yordle pragmatics, like they can save me now.

Geralt nods, and passes over a metal pipe. I grasp the cold piece of rusty material, aware that amongst all intents and purposes...

people are going to have to die.

I tuck the pipe underneath a flap in my prison garments, the thin strip of metal could barely be seen peeking out from the cuff of my left arm.

The plan was simple: fight our way out, or die trying.

Today was a scheduled prison search.

Any and all contraband was taken, and the prisoner guilty of said contraband was tortured. Sometimes to death.

Heh, they have no idea how desperate we really are, those arrogant fools.

Death is a safer alternative to a lot of things here.

A contraband scuff generally involves entire blocks being searched, then quarantining that particular area before moving onto the next block.

That'll be our chance. To fight.

Today is **our **block that is scheduled for a contraband search. Once we're escorted through the runic force fields...

We will begin the riot, shut down the walls, release all the remaining prisoners, and escape in the confusion.

Many will die, of course, but we all know the price of freedom is a steep one.

And we were all willing to pay that price.

I watch Geralt picks up a piece of debris and throws it into the green, pulsating force field blocking our cell.

A ripple forms along the haze, disintegrating the small debris and emanating a low hum as it reacts to the material.

"Today will be the day." He muttered, picking up another piece of debris and tossing it into the force field.

We waited for what seemed like an eternity, the not so distant clangs of metal, a low, grating sound signalling another body was being carted away, the screams,

the screams that never stop, a constant rotation of torture and insanity threatened to throw any of us off the edge at any time.

Then we hear it.

At first, the sound is distant, then it begins to pick up in intensity. A brisk walk, the characteristic patter of leather boots as they play across the steel surface.

Then more of them.

Dozens of these footsteps.

They come.

It's time.

The hall drops to a whisper, for we all know this is our only chance save for the psychotic screams that are simply too far gone.

Then my ears pick up a voice. A gravel, commanding, cruel voice.

"Release them, one cell at a time, and search them, be sure to keep the prisoners rank and file, I don't want another _incident._"

I feel a grim satisfaction at his words.

To my left, Geralt sharpens the ivory into a makeshift knife, his face contorted into an expression I haven't seen in a long time...

**Rage.**

Yes, that must be it.

Treated lower than animals, forced to live in our own filth, no clothes, no food, no humanity.

Then I hear it, one at a time, the dimming noise of a runic incantation being deactivated.

They are powering down the force fields.

I can hear the mage responsible uttering the words, an almost inaudible muttering. However, Yordle hearing is better then any humans, and my ears perk as I

remember each and every syllable.

"Fa, Rei, Ket..."

A second cell is released.

"Ein, Stof, Ket..."

A third cell, my heartbeat begins to quicken, adrenaline kicks in and my senses grow sharp.

It's our cell, we are being released.


	2. Chapter 2

As a Yordle, I was made fun of, even among my own kind.

They berated me for my small size and social ineptitude.

As a result, I was driven by an insatiable urge to prove myself.

While they skipped, played, and sang on the streets, I was locked up in my room, poring over ancient texts and manuscripts, gaining some clue as to what lied

beyond.

Seeking ancient, forgotten knowledge.

Magic.

It became an obsession...

And I slowly became somewhat of a loner.

Sick of being the runt of the litter, I cursed my own weakness.

I wanted to be somebody. Anybody.

Perhaps my solitude would have driven me insane...

Then I met him.

"When your back is against the wall, the only thing you can do is fight."

Heh.

I take his words to heart.

And perhaps...to my grave.

* * *

**Noxian High Command**

**1432 Hours**

**...**

**"What? Impossible, how could you have managed to lose control of 5 completely isolated districts with nothing short of an army at your damn disposal?!"**

**"We couldn't respond in time, the prisoners had this planned! we need to initiate lock down procedures!"**

**"You damn imbecile! you're telling me that a bunch of starved halfwits are running amok the most highly secure prison in high command? "**

**"We need to initiate a shutdown protocol immedi-"  
**

**"I have final say on what goes on around here, knave. Your failure to quell a simple prison riot has shown me you are no longer fit for command.****"**

**"Wait-"**

**"Darius, if you will...relieve him of his position."**

**"With pleasure."**

**"What?! You can't! I'm your second in command!"**

**"No. You're a weakness, something that Noxus has no place for."**

**"No! No!"**

**"Damn his ineptitude, I'll deal with these worms myself. Come Darius, we have dogs to put down."**

**"Of course, General Swain."**

* * *

Running, as fast as our legs can carry, pipe in hand, teeth grit, eyes flashing in the midnight sky, the copper stench of freshly drawn blood brings a sense of purpose

like I have never experienced.

I take in a deep breath of fresh air. Clean, night sky is all it takes to remind me that this is worth dying for.

A cursory glance is all it takes to give me a good estimate of our chances.

Roughly 40-50 inmates survived the initial clash with the Noxian militia as we barreled through the front gates onto district block D, Noxian stragglers were quickly

trampled in our wake.

It was a quick, but brutal exchange, as blades met knives and crudely made clubs, nothing short of pure willpower allowed us to break through.

More then enough to free block D and release the rest of them, hundreds.

As fast as he have been, however, word spread fast and they still managed to set up a quarantine on our district, something that becomes apparent as we spot more

of them in our charge.

Pikes raised high, shields held low.

A garrison.

They want to spear us as we collide into the district walls.

But I don't falter, none of us do, for that means defeat.

To face death in the eye, tooth and claw, and make it work for it's damn meal.

We have to take district D.

"This is it!" I see Geralt raise the makeshift knife high as he charges into the Noxian pike line.

A long, drawn out roar as we let out our war cry.

Like we're born for this.

Grim smiles play across our faces as the Noxian pike men quickly struggle to get into position, clearly shaken.

I analyze the men moments before we hit the phalanx.

Suicidal at best, however, this is as good as it gets, I hear the Noxian foot soldiers jeering at our approach.

"Don't give them a damn inch!"

We slam into the shield line, a loud staccato of flesh meeting flesh, steel meeting steel.

The impact jars my shoulder, however i'm running on pure adrenaline at this point.

A spear narrowly misses my left cheek as I dive through the front line, leaving the brunt of the collision to the bigger inmates, my small size fortunately allowing free

reign to get in close.

One of the pike men realizes this just a little too damn late.

We make eye contact as I dive past his forward thrust, missing his mark by inches: my heart.

I press on, raising the metal pipe to strike at his left leg.

He steps back and reaches for his sword, but I'm faster and manage to crush his shin with a savage swing, my ruined vocal cords letting loose the pent up hate and

disgust with the men who have kept me in this hellhole.

He drops to his functional right knee, gasping in pain, yet manages to deflect the next blow aimed for his skull with the sword.

The next strike catches me off guard, drawing blood from my left shoulder as I double back to recover.

I let out a breath. A breath I realize I have been holding this entire time.

A deadly calm as I make another charge against his kneeling frame, now at eye level with my own, shoving my way past the struggling men above me.

He grits his teeth and steels his blade to meet my pipe.

I see the swing come as I charge, a diagonal slash aimed towards my abdomen, hard to miss from his position, but easy enough to read.

His right arm arcs low, and I bring my own to meet it, attempting to parry the slash with a diagonal left, pipe brought low as to keep the blade away from my chest.

Momentum brings the blade down to my hands and skids off, drawing blood from my wrist. The lack of a cross guard puts me at a disadvantage, however he doesn't

have full use of his legs, and can only crawl backwards as I press forward past his guard, ignoring the sting on my right hand, which was nicked.

His eyes widen as he realizes it's over.

With one strike, I bring the pipe across his face, breaking his neck along with my pipe as he hits the ground with a sickening thud, his infantry helmet falling off in the

process, rolling onto the blood soaked gravel.

I freeze, the sight of his lifeless corpse stirs something in me.

Amidst this chaos...

I feel something that I have not felt in a long time...

Regret.

Sadness.

I've been so preoccupied with survival that I have thrown away my own humanity in the process.

What have I become?

"Push! Forward!" I hear the voice of Geralt, the large body of men pressing the Noxians back gives us more breathing room, the melee now more fragmented,

the formation successfully broken.

I grab the Noxian infantry sword lying on his corpse and attempt to rejoin Geralt as he struggles with a much larger man wielding an even larger sword.

He's hurt, bad. The first thing I notice is the cut along his chest bleeding profusely and one eye shut from blunt trauma, his teeth are clenched as the man

makes another blow, something Geralt narrowly avoids with another roll to his left, trying to get past the immense guard of that sword.

I try to come closer, however, the fighting around me is too intense to maneuver around, and running through it is a sure sign of stupidity.

Watching the exchange only makes it more apparent that Geralt is losing, it's only a matter of time before he slips up and gets killed.

I had to get to him.

"Push! Push!" My voice agonizingly responds to my efforts as I yell as loud as humanly possible.

It caused physical pain as the damaged vocal cords strain to mete out it's commands.

But that's the only signal the inmates need.

With inhuman force, we shove the Noxians backwards, inch by inch, step by step, their damn shields mean nothing if they had nothing to fight for.

We have nothing to lose, who were they to stop us?!

As we push forward to the district walls, I see an opening, a small gap that I need, Geralt and the bladesman are left alone amidst a pile of bodies, infantryman and

inmates who tried to interfere.

The sword is heavy in my hand, clearly made for a human, Yordles unaccounted for.

However, this doesn't stop me from trying to embed the blade into the bastards back as he rears up another swing-

***SLAM***

"VEIGAR! NO!"

My vision is jarred as I'm thrown off my feet as his sword hand collides with my jaw, probably fracturing it and clotheselining me backwards unto the cold hard

ground.

Dizzy, I see blood spattered around the concrete floor.

It only takes moments to realize it's my own.

Then I feel a heavy boot pressed upon my frail form, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

I can't breath.

Looking up through my tear stained eyes, I see him, the huge, burly swordsman with a cruel face, the grin plastered unto his features wells up something inside of me.

Rage.

Anger.

Hatred.

He raises his sword by the pommel, blade pointed down upon my neck.

This is the end.

But I plan on taking at least one more soul with me to hell.

Through the blood filling my lungs, I mutter a dark incantation, a lost form of dark magic.

A pact with evil itself.

My lips impart the syllables faster than the eye can see, my hate filled eyes never leaving his grin plastered face as he stood over me, sword moments away

from ending my life.

But before the final verse is muttered, a figure darts from behind and grapples with the man, the grayish fur gives me a good idea of who it is.

At first Geralt seems to gain the upper hand, but the swordsman proves to be too much. With a savage roar, he wrenches the Yordle off of his back like a pest and

slams him unto the gravel, a display of both raw power and cruelty.

I watch in horror as the Noxian slowly advances upon Geralt, blade in hand, grinning like a madman.

I have to get up.

But my body refuses to respond.

He roughly lifts him up by the fur on his neckline.

I had to get up!

Come on damn you! Just move!

But my body refuses to acquiesce, it's hopeless.

I can only lie and watch as the blade of that Noxian sword is swung like an executioner.

Time seems to slow as my eyes widen, Geralt slowly turns his head to face me, still in the iron grip of that brute.

One eye shut from the wounds he has sustained, the kicking does nothing to unhinge that iron grip.

I curse my frail form...my weakness...

A red tracer flies overhead, I have a split second to realize what it is.

A bullet.

It hits him, dead center in the sternum, the slug ripping through the iron banded armor and flesh alike.

He drops Geralt in a gasp of pain, who quickly scrambles away, reaching for his knife.

Another round, this time I can hear the shells hitting the ground as the shooter refreshes the barrel.

This time is isn't a slug, the rounds branch off into multiple pellets, like a **shotgun.**

They all find their mark, painting his body so full of lead I wonder how he still stands.

Then I see him walk past my prone form. He takes a couple more steps and adjusts the cigar between his teeth, a smirk.

The jingle of his spurs, the windswept, unkempt hair.

The poncho.

Then he lets loose an explosion.

At least, that's what I think it is.

Nothing is left, just a smoking crater where the Noxian used to stand.

Only now do I realize how dire my condition is.

I can hear Geralt run over, face etched with concern, the infantry sword I dropped now in his hand.

The spurs clink as they take a couple steps.

It's him.

"Easy, partner."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Is that how you thank the person who just saved your hide? I'd have thought you'd at least be a little grateful, heh." He lights another cigar from the side pouch

dangling from his waist.

His voice, so thick and masculine. Like a cowboy.

A pause.

"You're not like the other inmates."

"Heh. I'm not like a lot of people." His voice is like gravel, a deep monotone.

He faces me, a slight chuckle as the shotgun is holstered, poncho placed back over his left arm.

"You're a strong fighter, for a Yordle, didn't think you would make it this far to be honest."

A dumb nod is all I can muster.

Off in the distance, the garrison breaks down as the inmates storm the front gate.

We've broken through.

Straining my neck as I try to make out his features, the grizzled beard on his face is all i can see in the darkness.

"So you just gonna sit there? Or you gonna let me treat that gash? he got you pretty good I'd reckon."

That's right.

He did get off a clean sweep before this stranger saved our lives.

"I...I think my jaw is broken." It hurts just touching it.

He kneels down and pulls out a white cloth. bandages.

"Well, this is gonna sting, might wanna find something to bite onto while I get that jaw put into place."

I nod again.

It does hurt. A lot in fact.

My screams can be heard from across the courtyard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Noxian High Command**

**District Block C**

**Prison Courtyard**

**1520 Hours**

* * *

**SUBJECT: MALCOLM GRAVES**

**STATUS: INCARCERATION IN CELL 512_B**

**CURRENTLY ESCAPING...VERIFYING**

**THREAT LEVEL EVALUATED: INITIATING SHUTDOWN PROTOCOLS**

**QUARANTINE ESTABLISHED...VERIFYING **

**RETRIEVING QUERY... VERIFYING**

**REEVALUATING PROTOCOL: INITIATING TERMINATION PROTOCOL OF SUBJECT MALCOLM GRAVES**

**LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED**

******COMMENCE MISSION**

* * *

They're both tougher then they look.

A quick backward glance lets me know they ain't too far behind.

It also lets me get a load of those scars.

Everywhere I look, it's just more disfigurement. Teal scarring, burns, cuts just crisscrossed everywhere.

I'm all too familiar with Noxian diplomacy. It ain't pretty.

It's a miracle he's still able to walk.

We're close to the front Garrison, though, not long before we hit the end.

For them that is... I have a score to settle.

But first...

"Hey...mind if we...stop...? I...I just need a moment."

It's the grey midget, he's breathing hard, doubled over on his knees.

We've been running for an hour.

One look and I can tell, poor bastard's running on fumes.

"Geralt, are you alright?" The other one, bandages wrapped around his head like a patient in some mental ward is quick to notice the irregular breathing.

"It's...it's nothing, I'm okay now." The fatigue is catching up, I can tell.

I deadpan across the courtyard and watch as more inmates flood out from the powered down force fields.

More fighting ahead, but the chaos is so thick that it's pretty much smooth sailing, so long as we stay ahead of the Noxian reinforcements.

Truth be told, I don't even know why I let these two tag along. All they've been doing for the last hour is causing one hell of a headache.

That, and they're slowin' me down.

For a second, I even consider leaving em' both behind.

"We ain't stoppin. If you can't keep up then you can't keep up." He looks at me, then nods, completely exhausted.

They don't stop running, despite the labored breathing.

But I slow down to a steady jog, despite my callous words, the patter of their footsteps eagerly trail not too far behind.

Life has shown me that the only person worth an actual damn is yourself, trust is just a temporary fix for a blindside that'll get you killed in the end anyway.

Anyhow, it's only repayment for the stunt he pulled earlier.

I probably wouldn't have made it out of the first block without the craziness going on at the garrison.

Never seen a Yordle move that fast, or that desperately for that matter.

Handy with a pipe, I'll give him that.

True, I already had enough strings pulled to get out months in advance, the riot was just a nice little distraction.

The shotgun smuggled in through a couple favors never hurt either.

Labored breathing lets me know that they aren't too far behind.

Still got some mileage left in 'em. A pity.

But we're gonna do a little more then just a midnight jog. This ain't no walk in the park.

The piece of metal in his hands catches my eye, those bandages wrapped around his paws like some kind of makeshift grip.

Heh, bet it doesn't weighs much more then he does, let alone be light enough to swing.

"You sure you can use that thing? Looks mighty heavy for someone of your...stature."

He isn't amused, that black fur of his stands on edge, anxious.

"Is... is that a short joke?" Huh... is it normal for Yordles to sound like that?

I reckon they did somethin' to his voice, too.

Come to think about it, he's also pretty small, even for a midget anyway.

"Nah it ain't, but you sure don't look like you're tough enough to swing Noxian steel, let alone kill someone with it."

A pause.

"What's your name, kid?"

"I'm not a kid."

"Trust me, compared to my age, and the shit I've seen. You're a kid."

Another pause, I've stopped jogging, we're now standing in silence, save for the not too far off sounds of the riot.

"Well?"

"...It's Veigar, and he's Geralt."

The other one waves meekly as he struggles for breath, thankful for the small reprieve.

That look in his eye, it reminds me of someone.

Long ago.

"I've watched you cut people down in cold blood to stay alive, with nothing but a damn sewer pipe, but that don't mean anything if you can't find a reason for it."

Another pause.

The next words come out as a whisper, barely audible even from this distance.

"I just want to get out of here."

_We're getting out of this place alive. Whatever it takes._

It brings back something I've forgotten.

Compassion.

Brotherhood.

Betrayal.

Scrapping back to back in dirty alleyways.

The willingness to die for whatever the hell you believe in.

The tricky part is **not** dying.

It's all meaningless in the end, however, because everyone dies eventually.

"I'm pretty sure everyone stuck in this pile of shit does." The words come out a little harsher then I intend, but then again...

_Trust is a harsh word, Graves, you don't get it for free._

"It's anger, the fury that burns in every person, no matter how big or small. You just don't get it." No words to respond, only a slight narrowing of those yellow

eyes.

_It's what makes the world go round, rage is the fuel for this world we live in._

I spit out the cigar, long since extinguished in the hour spent running.

"Once you get out, then what? You're just some shell, no soul left."

The words sting, I can see it on his face.

A dead man walking.

"Wait...what do you mean...?"

"I'm saying that you're living a pointless life, ironic how all this fighting has made you more alive then you ever will be."

His eyes widen in realization as my words sink in.

"I am a somebody, and I'll never forget who I am." Hand tightens upon the hilt of his blade.

Yet his voice is uncertain.

Somewhere deep down, I know that he knows that it's true.

At this, the grey one in the back looks up, the conversation must have been a little more heated then I anticipated.

"What's going on, Veigar? Why's he looking at us like that?"

Dust kicks up on the concrete, the wind bristles my poncho in the midnight breeze.

"It's nothing, let's get going."

"But wait! What about the guy who saved us? He's coming with us, right? Right?!"

A low chuckle escapes my lips, a hand is put on the holster as I take a couple slow paces back...

"You said it yourself, there's no reason to keep on fighting, but you do." I relight another cigar from my pouch,

the flames bring a familiar sense of security as I snap shut the lighter.

"So why do you?"

But he's already halfway gone, the gray haired kid takes one last look at me before saying a quick,

"Thanks for everything." and scampering off.

A couple minutes is all it takes for both of 'em to get out of my sight.

Those two, they remind me a little bit of myself.

Better me then them, at least I can die with a clear conscience.

As clear as swamp water anyway.

All I can do is wait now.

...

"It's been a long time, cowboy."

That voice, it's unmistakable.

A black silhouette under the night sky, save for the flash of yellow that unmistakably comes from a tarot card can be seen from the corner of my eye.

"You let 'em go."

I can almost hear that stupid grin under the duster hat he wears.

But I don't answer.

Grounding my boots upon the concrete floor, I shift my weight to the back leg as I face my adversary.

Time hasn't changed him, though that stupid goatee just keeps getting longer.

"Mercy isn't in your character, you're going soft on me."

A grim smile plays across my lips.

"Or maybe that's just you gettin' senile, old man."

A pause, the inmates have moved on, only a still silence persists.

It's just us now.

"I reckon you know why I'm here."

I do.

But that doesn't make this any easier then it already isn't.

One look, that's all it takes to remember the things he's put me through.

"You traded me in for a bag of tricks. _Partner." _It's impossible to hide the venom in my words, for it's been too long, and I've fallen so far.

Because of him.

His face remains expressionless.

Then again, poker faces were something he specialized in.

"It's only business."

Yeah, just like our friendship I reckon.

But I have no more words, we've spoken enough.

Wind buffets my poncho as we face off, my grizzled experience contrasts against his fancy gypsy clothing under the night sky.

The flash of gold as he draws a card, my eyes barely track the movement from under his sleeve.

"End of the line, partner." Eyes flash as I sweep back the poncho with my left arm, revealing the shotgun.


	4. Chapter 4

I once met a man on my brief travels.

He was on the run, a fugitive from Ionia.

The same look in his eye that I have now.

A cornered animal with nowhere to go.

"The road to ruin is shorter then you think."

I didn't understand what he meant back then.

Innocent, naive.

There was no way I could have known what those words actually meant.

...But he was right.

* * *

**Noxian High Command**

**Prison Exit**

**1530 Hours**

* * *

We've made it.

There was some heavy fighting but we've made it.

Geralt, the surviving inmates, all of us.

We've all made it.

Hundreds of us, starving, bleeding. The fighting has worn us down, but we stand against the Noxian gates resolute.

For that is the only purpose we have left.

A simple, common goal.

Survival.

I feel something...

Exhilaration.

This is it.

Freedom.

Just one final push.

"Meet them dead on, give them nothing." I can hear Geralt muttering our final rites under his ragged breath, an addendum of our last moments here.

Live or die, they won't forget this night.

The walls have been barricaded, and an entire legion of Noxian forces await our arrival.

Hundreds, rank and file. Blades sharpened with an evil sheen under the eerie glow of moonlight.

I note the gilded red helmets, the banner of a raven flies high.

It's the Noxian vanguard.

They've sent the best of the best.

"That's the General's personal legion, they've come to put us down." Geralt's voice is hoarse from all the yelling, I can hear the uncertainty lacing his voice.

But now isn't the time for second thoughts.

"They can bleed, just like we can. They can die, just like we can." Those words are all he needs to hear, as he steels himself for the final confrontation with death itself.

On the other side of this blood soaked battleground, the general presides over his forces, staff used as a crutch for the peg substituting his right leg.

A crow with multiple eyes nestles upon his left shoulder pauldron, it's black wings unfurl as we approach.

The general eyes our forces like a carrion circling leftovers.

His voice booms across the battlefield, magnified no doubt by the immense magic at his disposal.

"You've made it thus far. Admirable. I applaud the strength and will you have shown tonight, but this is the end for you, and your misbegotten kind."

The Noxian's jeer in response, bolstered by the presence of their general.

"It's a privilege to die amongst the Noxian elite, you should be honored."

But his words upon deaf ears.

For we have come too far...

And we have withstood too much...

To go down without a fight.

"If they want to put us down like animals, then let us meet them with tooth and claw!" The inmates cheer, eager to spill Noxian blood.

For our entire lives have all boiled down to this moment.

It's them, or us.

Geralt brings the ivory knife to bear.

"CHARGE!" Nothing more needs to be said, as tonight, the streets of Noxus will run rampant with the blood of their own soldiers...

Or ours, should we fall.

The front line collides with the Noxian forces, once again my blood stained hands are brought forth as the blade is swung into the Noxian pike line.

It isn't pretty.

Our first wave is completely decimated as the pike line spears the frontal assault, defiant cries as inmates are impaled upon the Noxian spearheads.

It's nothing short of a massacre.

Stymied, but not discouraged, we redouble our efforts with another savage push, pipes and shivs meeting steel as we quickly reattempt to close the distance.

But its no use, the line remains taut as an iron cord, we cannot break through.

That's right.

These soldiers are disciplined beyond compare.

They refuse to break rank, no matter what we throw at them.

At this rate, we won't even put a dent in the phalanx, let alone get close enough to engage their forces directly.

The red eyes of the raven banner stare back as I furiously hack away at the spearheads, desperate for an opening.

So...this is what it means to face death in the eye.

The dead and dying lie across the concrete, inmates breath their last as our numbers quickly dwindle.

They won't be forgotten...

But we cannot afford to lose here!

"Push!"

I see the pike men in front rear back for another thrust.

We're forced back once again as the second wave of inmates are cut down en masse.

The deaths leave a bitter taste in my mouth as they fall.

It's no use! A frontal assault is suicide against this kind of trained phalanx, at this rate...

"HIT THEM HARD!" To my right, Inmates slam into their exposed sides, spears prove to be useless as the inmates overpower the completely unguarded right side.

It's Geralt, he's leading a second unit for a flank attack!

That's all we need to break through.

With a furious shunt of my blade, we push forward into the fray, gaining ground, breaking through shields and spears alike.

The hiss of steel as they draw arming swords in response, spears too large for close quarters.

A sense of dread as the melee intensifies.

It's the first time I've seen a vanguard up close.

Bandle City used to have stories about the Noxian elite and how they carried off misbehaving yordles to their graves.

It isn't far from the truth.

I can see his breath fog the steel as our blades clash, his strength proves to be overwhelming, blue eyes glint under that iron helmet.

He's overzealous.

Instinct is telling me to move, but I stand my ground, absorbing the full brunt of his blows, waiting for the opportunity to present itself...

But my arms are quickly tiring, Yordles are not meant for this kind of physical strain.

An opening comes in the form of a forward thrust.

I feint a low right in response, and he brings the sword a bit lower to compensate, however my small form allows me to adjust the point of impact on the fly, something

he realizes too late as the point of his blade skids off the edge of my cross guard.

Momentum drives him forward, way past the intended mark, and into my blade.

The mail deflects an otherwise fatal swing, and he doubles back, breathing hard, sweat beads upon his exposed temple, as is mine.

All the fighting around me has deafened as I focus upon my adversary, time seems to slow as I strafe to the right, trying to abuse the fact that his right

hand can't keep up with my movements.

But he's left handed.

It comes quick, and I don't completely anticipate the swing as he steps forward, completely forsaking his shield which has been unused up to this point.

It hurts, the steel bites into my shoulder as my guard was slightly off.

I can't make that mistake again.

We circle once more, and charge, weapons raised.

He makes the same move.

But this time, I plan accordingly.

I feint once more to the right, however he expects me to weave left again, which I don't.

Instead, I continue to his exposed right, both arms gripping the hilt of my blade in a horizontal fashion, ready for a clean slash through his exposed midriff, where the

chain mail cuts off and a leather tasset is fastened.

It cuts right through him in a spray of blood.

He falls to his knees, then hits the ground, face first.

My own midriff stings as I realize that he also landed a slight blow as I made the fatal pass, a red trace along the black fur reminds me just how close it was.

He was planning to do the same thing.

But I survived, that's all that matters.

Without any immediate target, a cursory glance is all it takes to see how we've been faring.

It isn't good.

Everywhere I look, Noxian infantry surround our forces.

We've become boxed in from the rest of the inmates, the fighting has become an all out melee, all vestiges of strategy broken down to nothing more then

a bloody, drawn out brawl.

To my right a ways away, I can see Geralt desperately fighting off the Noxian forces pressing in, cuts and bruises line the grey fur along his chest and face, he's bleeding from one shoulder, teeth are barred as he slashes away with that ivory knife, now caked in blood.

All around him, the inmates fall to the inevitable steel that manages to cut them down.

They won't last long.

But we can't reach them, Noxian forces have cut us off from one another.

It's like an endless tide.

But we have to push through, and regroup.

"Everyone press right! Don't let them box us in like this!" I hack away at more shields blocking our passage, trying to regain a foothold in an otherwise treacherous battleground.

But my vocal cords have become too strained at this point, they can't hear me.

"You heard him! Everyone push!" A gruff inmate, missing an eye, probably a more shady individual in his youth, relay my otherwise inaudible orders for everyone to follow.

Only now do I realize how much faith these inmates have placed in me, their faces etched with nothing but sheer determination as we force our way through the ranks.

It's just an ocean of steel helmets, everywhere I look, more Noxians march rank and file, swords at the ready.

A quick thrust buries my blade into the sternum of another foe, the small contingent of inmates follow suit, desperate to get out the kill zone.

It's slow, grueling, and there aren't very many of us left, but sheer force of will keeps us moving.

Terrain has become uneven, it's hard to find a proper foothold amidst all these bodies, and the ground has actually become slick with blood, one wrong step may prove fatal.

Despite the heavy losses, we make it to Geralt and his remaining unit, much to his relief as we force back them back, giving the inmates a chance to breath.

"You're alive!" as I bring the blade to bear, more inmates come in, slamming clubs and shivs against the shield line in droves.

Our backs are pressed against one another, I lash out with the blade, catching a weary soldier off guard, crippling his left leg.

"They've sent reinforcements, at this rate we aren't going to last much longer, though."

Geralt grimly nods, the ivory knife flashes as it finds another mark.

Our chances out here are slim.

And he knows this.

"What's the plan?"

I realize that no one has said a word, only the cacophony of steel can be heard as the inmates await my orders.

That's right, we're on the back foot here.

One look is all it takes to see how dire this situation is.

There aren't many of us left, roughly a couple hundred remain standing against the Noxian vanguard.

Even worse, I can see another banner off in the distance, fresh reinforcements are not that far off.

We're being pushed in.

Staying here is a death sentence.

Our only chance is to press forward as one, powerful unit.

It won't be pretty, and I doubt we'll make it that far.

But people are going to die either way, it's not like we have a choice.

"We have to get to the front gate, be ready to break through."

His eyes widen as he realizes what I meant.

It's a suicide charge.

Our last ditch effort to freedom.

Past the line of infantry, we can see it, the exit.

Despite this, he doesn't voice his dissent.

With a war cry, Geralt raises his voice above the cacophony of clashing blades.

"Everyone! To the gates! On my signal! Hold!"

"HOOAH!" Inmates stand at the ready, desperately fighting inch for bloody inch.

I grit my teeth as we brace ourselves for the inevitable charge through the infantry line.

"PUSH!"

We trample through the shield wall.

"PUSH!"

We've closed distance with the spearmen.

Blood stains my sword as I savagely cut through the ranks.

But we're sustaining a lot of damage.

Minutes pass by at an agonizingly slow pace, every inch is paid for in blood.

Heavy losses on both sides, only a hundred of us still stand...

And there's still too many of them.

We won't reach the exit.

"Veigar, we can't go on any further! What do we do?!"

It's Geralt, we're all pressed together as a single contingent, unable to push forward.

We're in complete disarray at this point, they have us cornered.

I guess this is it.

There's only one thing left we can do...

And thats take as many of them down with us as possible.

A grimace as I swallow down the fear.

The dread that we're going to die.

But Just as I have accepted my fate, I can see it...

Off in the distance.

More inmates.

Coming from the left side, quickly making their way to us.

And not just the inmates.

I see him.

Toting that shotgun, poncho swung over his left shoulder, he's clearing a path to the exit.

The cowboy.

He catches my eye with a knowing grin, a freshly lit cigar burns bright as more shells hit the floor, barrels red hot from use.

"It's him! He's come back for us!" Geralt is quick to spring back into action, renewed with a sense of hope.

The front line weakens as they are sandwiched between us and the wave of inmates pressing in from the left.

"Forward!" We redouble our charge, less than a hundred of us still stand, fighting our way to the exit.

We've almost made it.

The cowboy, he's already at the front gates, covering our escape.

"What's takin' you, kid?! Get moving!"

I just have to get through.

Just a little bit further...

"Veigar! Your left!"

The axe is narrowly avoided as I fall and crawl backwards onto the concrete, sparks flying as the edge skids along the floor.

"That's far enough, welp, I think it's time your little rebellion has come to an end."

Eyes widen as I realize who it is.

A burly, huge, axe wielding brute of a man with short, unkempt, black hair.

The hand of Noxus himself.

His armor is spattered in blood, the spiked pauldrons gleam ominously as he rears back for another blow.

"Witness true strength!"

I scramble to my feet as the axe head hits the ground in another shower of sparks, a crack runs along the concrete where it split the earth.

There's no time to recover, he isn't giving me enough time to react.

"Dammit!" Geralt jumps over my prone form, knife in hand, he circles the brute, drawing his attention for a brief moment.

They clash, Geralt weaves in and out of his guard, trying to get close enough to land a fatal blow on his neck.

It takes every cell in my body to stand back up, everything hurts, the strain from all this fighting has slowly taken its toll.

A dull realization that the Noxian forces are slowly retaking the exit.

They're losing ground back there.

We don't have much time.

Geralt looks at me, a grimace plays upon his rugged features.

"Just go, I'll take care of him."

What?

What is he saying?!

"No way! You go! I'm the one with the sword!"

He makes another swing, Geralt narrowly avoids losing his head with a forward roll, I try to find an opening, but the armor is too thick.

And i'm too tired.

"Then give it to me! You aren't in any condition to fight."

He's right.

I can barely lift the damn thing anymore, let alone take this guy on.

No.

I can't.

I won't.

"There's no way I'm about to just leave you behind, Geralt."

"This is pointless! We're both gonna be left behind if you don't leave right now!"

We're outclassed here, we can't take him.

The axe head is barely deflected as I use up the rest of my strength, sheer force of the blow jars my shoulder.

The next one knocks me down, I'm too weak to move fast enough.

A cruel grin as he raises the axe.

Geralt's right.

I'm just going to get in the way.

Slugs burst as they collide with his armor, the shells leaving heavy dent marks in the plate.

He curses, wildly looking around for the assailant.

"It's time for us to go, kid."

Heavy arms grab me the by scruff of my fur and drag me to my feet.

Where the hell is Geralt...?

Where is he?!

I see him, the two are still locked in a fierce duel.

He's bleeding profusely, the axe is swung like a guillotine as he tries to dart around the side.

He's losing. Badly.

"Let go of me! Geralt!"

But he doesn't listen, struggle as hard as I can, I can't break out of his grip.

I have to help him!

But it's hopeless as i'm carried away to the exit, my struggling does little to emancipate myself from his strong grasp.

Geralt grunts as a fist catches him in the stomach, he doubles over in pain.

"We're leaving him behind! Let me go, damn you!"

"No can do! They ain't waiting on us, ya damn moron!"

Time seems to slow, I can only watch as the brute strides over his kneeling frame, axe in hand, grinning like a madman.

No...

With a loud roar, he slams the axe into his neck, decapitating him.

Geralt's body hits the floor with a soft thump.

Everything around me deafens to a white noise.

This isn't happening...

This can't be happening!

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

With a furious wrench, I break out of his grip.

"Where the hell are you going?! The exit's the other way!"

I realize that i'm screaming, tears are running down my face as I sprint headlong back into the fray.

You told me you'd make it through this!

You told me you'd survive!

Nothing else matters, the only thing I want is him dead.

Dead at my feet.

Writhing in agony, begging for mercy.

That damn smile on his face.

I'll wipe off!

Along with his head!

He turns to face me as I quickly make a swing for his neck, intent on bringing him down.

His fist collides with my face and I'm brought to the ground, the sword is knocked out of my grasp with a casual sweep of his boot.

A chuckle, I get a clear look at that face.

The face of evil.

"I'll give your friend credit, at least he died kneeling, as is his place!"

He laughs, a boot pressed upon my chest.

It's hard to breath.

I feel something...snap.

My emotions are replaced with nothing but Rage. Hatred.

The manuscripts I've read, the knowledge that I've gained.

I'll pay any price.

Anything!

This is the end.

But I plan on taking at least one more soul with me to hell.

Even if it means selling my soul.

Through the blood filling my lungs, I mutter a dark incantation, a lost form of dark magic.

A pact with evil itself.

My lips impart the syllables faster than the eye can see, my hate filled eyes never leaving his grin plastered face as he stands over me, axe moments away from ending

my life.

Then a light, i'm blinded by it, I realize that my eyes have become completely encased in energy, growing a bright orange.

I feel a strange sensation coursing through my veins. My very being.

Everything burns, my mind, my body, this energy entraps my soul in its very essence.

Another consciousness manifests itself in the back of my mind.

_Use us._

**The magic.**

**It calls to me.**

A burst of energy as dark matter flings him back, I scramble to my feet, the energy tingles as my fingertips brim with a new found power.

Yes, this is the power that I need.

"You'll pay for what you did to Geralt!"

I focus my very being into one, powerful spell.

Agonizing, the pain is almost unbearable as the mana taxes my body.

"So... now that the tables have turned..."

I'll obliterate him from existence.

A huge ball of dark matter begins to form in the night sky.

Even if it means destroying myself in the process!

"I will show you..."

I can sense it.

He's afraid.

"No mercy!"

Mental fortitude is all it takes to slam the gigantic dark hole into the ground, engulfing everyone, and everything.

The dark matter consumes us all, sucking inmates and Noxians alike into the gaping mass.

Something inside of me snaps as the maelstrom bears down upon us all.

It's glorious.

The eye of insanity.

Then everything fades to black.


End file.
